Between the Woods and Frozen Lake
by Slipstream
Summary: While traveling on horse-back across a frozen Shire to visit the Tooks for Yule, a sudden accident leaves Frodo on the brink of winter and a battle hardened Pippin to care for him. (Part 2 posted)
1. Part One

Title:  Between the Woods and Frozen Lake (1/?)      

Author:  Slipstream

Rating:  PG (for illness, non-sexual hobbit nudity, and brief animal violence)

Summary:  While traveling on horse-back across a frozen Shire to visit the Tooks for Yule, a sudden accident leaves Frodo on the brink of winter and a battle hardened Pippin to care for him.  

Notes:  This is a little scenario that has been running about my head for a while and was brought fully to shape as I watched a reading of Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" on PBS, a poem that is typically portrayed as a Christmasy, wholesome tale, but in which I see much darker connotations (or maybe I'm the only one who sees the woods as a symbolic longing for death).  Anyway, the title is pulled from one of the darkest (ha ha) verses of the poem, which I have reprinted below for those who may not have read it or would like a refresher.  Geographically, I have tried to keep this as accurate to Tolkien's maps as possible.  From what I gather, the Shire is no more than 50 miles across, at most, and I've tried to stay true to the layout of things.  I may have inserted a roadway or brook here or there, but even Tolkien's maps do not show all the fairways that surely must crisscross the Shire, so I do not feel exceedingly guilty about it.  

Specific Chapter Notes:  Yes, I know that Sam's child is a girl, Elanor, but remember that while Rosie was pregnant they both thought that she would be a boy, thus my references to the unborn child as 'him'.  This chapter contains less Frodo!healers-centric stuff, but hey, you gotta have SOME plot build up!

For Febobe (a.k.a. Frodo Baggins of Bag End), who encouraged.  A great part of the heart and soul of Frodo!Healers, she is the reason that all my stories now have extensive medical notes at the end of them and the reason I now include such extensive food descriptions.  Praise her with great praises!

As always, enjoy.

~~~***~~~

_"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"_

_Whose woods are these I think I know_

_His house is in the village though;_

_He will not see me stopping here_

_To watch his woods fill up with snow._

_My little horse must think it queer_

_To stop without a farmhouse near_

_Between the woods and frozen lake_

_The darkest evening of the year.___

_He gives his harness bells a shake _

_To ask if there is some mistake.___

_The only other sound's the sweep_

_Of easy wind and downy flake.___

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep._

_But I have promises to keep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep,_

_And miles to go before I sleep.___

_-Robert Frost_

~~~***~~~

In the last weeks of October, before winter began to settle in and make correspondence by mail more difficult, a letter arrived to one Frodo Baggins of Bag End from a Mr. Peregrin Took of Tookborough, which read, in all its utter lack of formality:

"Dearest Cousin Frodo,

"Greetings, thou tossel-headed ancient!  You would think there were no roads from Tookborough to Hobbiton with what little we've seen of you of late.  Even our beloved Sam Gamgee has paid a visit to these lands, though I think it was to make sure I haven't gone and done mischief to his precious saplings!  

"We miss your sorry face at our supper-table, and as the holidays are fast approaching, I wish to extend to you an invitation to join us this year for Yule.  Now don't you start, cousin.  You may bluster on about overstaying your welcome, but that is physically impossible, seeing as to all the credit you have earned throughout the years.  My memory and the official registry shows that you have not paid us an extended visit since the harvest of 1418, and even you will admit, dear Frodo, that that is a rather long time ago.  

"Come and visit!  Get out of that stuffy hole and let the newlyweds stir themselves into a right improper state with their own brand of Yule cheer (and believe me, cousin, from the off-color talks at the Green Dragon I had with a rather drunken Samwise, that is EXACTLY what Master Gamgee plans to do his first Yule morn with his beloved!)  We bachelors shall retain our modesty and hopefully get gloriously drunk on cheer while those lovebirds wrestle over who gets the last piece of Yule-cake.

"Please respond as quickly as you are able so that travel arrangements may be made.  And know this, cousin.  I will not take 'no' for an answer very lightly, and I shall write letters imploring Sam on my behalf should you refuse.  Eru knows that if I can't make you do something, Sam most certainly can.

"Much love,

Pippin"

With an argument like that, there could be little resistance, and Frodo accepted the invitation with only a little forethought.  All the proper arrangements were made, and as morning dawned a week before Yule the Bag End household was rather busy with the last-minute preparations for Frodo's journey.

The dirty remnants of the last snow lay draped across the winter landscape.  Though fresh snow hadn't fallen in the last week, the temperatures had dropped and a hard freeze had crusted over the drifts and turned once gentle slopes into jagged sheets of ice.  It was bad riding weather, for sure, but an ache in the Gaffer's left knee spoke of a storm in less than three days, and if Frodo did not take this opportunity to make a run for Tookborough then he'd never make it at all, a fact that he reminded Rosie of again as she fussed one last time over the thickness of his cloak.  

"I know, Frodo," she replied, wrapping another layer of scarves around his neck like a young child being bundled up for his first trip outdoors.  "But I wish you wouldn't go running out as if you weren't welcome in your own home.  Sam and I would love for you to stay, this being our first Yule in Bag End, as it were."

"Exactly why I need to get out from underfoot," he smiled.  "You and Sam ought to enjoy your first Yuletide together as a proper man and wife, and you don't need me underfoot all holiday."  He winked, laughing at the resulting blush from the Mistress Gamgee.  

"And you!" he said, giving her swelling belly a rather cross look.  "Behave your mum, and not quite so much kicking whilst I'm away!  Your poor mother has already put up quite a bit with your bad behavior, and if it continues why there'll be no Yule cake for you!"  

They both laughed this time, Frodo blowing the unborn babe a rather elaborate good-bye kiss.  Sam entered carrying a tray with tea in a canteen and hot scones wrapped in a kerchief for Frodo's journey, a queer look on his face, despite his grin.  "I don't know what all the merriment is about, but it is good to hear laughter from the likes of you two."

Rosie stood on tiptoe to give her husband a gentle peck on the cheek, taking the tray from his hands and placing them instead on her belly. "Oh, he's just scolding your son for being so lively, as usual."  The babe, as if sensing he was being discussed, stirred beneath his father's touch, and Samwise blushed with pride.

The doorbell chimed, interrupting their little moment, and they all turned to look at it.  

"That would be Master Eldeberry," Frodo sighed and bent to retrieve one of his packs.  Sam hastily gathered the rest of his baggage so that his master would not be forced to shoulder their burden, and Rose followed them as they shuffled out the door and down the garden path.  

Frodo's travel plans were this— He had arranged to travel by cart from Hobbiton with a merchant bringing store wares to Bywater, where he would room for a night in the Suckling Pig, a local inn.  The innkeeper there had recently sold a pony to the Tooks, and rather than send one of his lads to deliver the mount and leave him stranded in Tookborough, Frodo would use it for his journey.  He'd return to Hobbiton with Pippin, who would stay a few days at Bag End before proceeding to Buckland to visit Merry.  "Trouble enough for everyone," Pippin had said with a grin while revealing his plans, "without any one place being over-crowded with Travelers for too long a time."

Frodo nodded his greetings to Boro Eldeberry, a cheerily round hobbit wrapped in a red scarf so long that it left little trails in the snow behind him.  The merchant's cart was hitched momentarily to the garden gate, and Sam took extra care to arrange his master's baggage among the packed goods so that they would not tumble during the bumpy ride.  While Boro unhitched his horses and checked to make sure all their fastenings were secure, Sam turned his gaze to his master and set his mouth in a firm line.  

"You take good care, Mr. Frodo.  And don't let that young Took bully you into trouble."

Frodo laughed.  "I do not think you shall have to worry much about that.  Our Peregrin may still be ever the prankster, but I believe our little trip and the watchful eye of the lasses there this holiday will be enough to keep him at his best."

Sam smirked.  "It wasn't him I was worrying about…"  Affronted, Frodo frowned and smacked him arm lightly, at which Rosie stifled a little snort.  Sam, too, smiled and laid a strong hand on his shoulder, then his expression went serious and his eyes softened.

"I mean it.  You stay out of trouble and come back to us safe and sound in two weeks time, or I'll be forced to skin that Took."

"I know, Sam.  And I will.  You needn't worry."  Frodo's smile was small and slightly sad, and Sam's eyes shone as he drew his master into a farewell embrace.

"Have a merry Yule, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo squeezed back.  "You too, Mr. Samwise.  Take care of your wife and babe."  

They withdrew, Sam wiping at his eyes as if a sudden piece of dirt had landed in them, and Frodo embraced Rosie as well.  As the newlyweds stood by, he climbed into the waiting cart.  Once he was settled Boro shouted a merry "Gid-yup!" to his team, and they were off.  The cart rumbled and bumped down New Row, and Frodo sat turned backwards to watch Sam and Rosie wave him off before the cart took a final turn and they disappeared.  

The cart was slow, being heavily burdened with trade goods, but it was better than walking.  The ride to Bywater took the remainder of the day, and Frodo was content to relax and watch the landscape around Hobbiton roll by as he made polite small talk with the merchant.  He listened as Boro Eldeberry recounted tales of his five children, the eldest of whom, a daughter, would be wed to Joko Smallburrow next spring.  They talked of inns (Boro was delighted to hear he was staying at the Pig and praised their ale verbosely), next year's crops, Mistress Glory Westbank of the north farthing who had the previous month birthed an astonishingly fair-haired set of healthy triplets, anything and everything except the War, and Frodo was careful to keep his maimed hand wrapped in the lap blanket.

Though it was dark when Boro Eldeberry finally deposited Frodo and his baggage at the Suckling Pig, Erlan Hardbottle, the innkeeper, was waiting at the door with a lantern and a cheery smile to usher him in.  

"Greetings, Master Baggins!  I take it your journey was well?  Right cold out here, it is.  Let me give you a hand with that baggage and we'll have you in and settled in no time!"

Together they gathered Frodo's belongings and the innkeeper led him inside the cheerily warm tavern.  The common room was strung with garlands and evergreens, and a small queue off hobbits with mugs of cider and ale were roasting their toes near the crackling fire, chattering quietly amongst themselves.  Boro nodded to several of his customers (Frodo was spared any social obligations as he knew none of the hobbits clustered in the room), and continued on his journey to the back hall.  "Here we are," he motioned, stopping at a small red door and nudging it open.  "Not the most lavish of lodgings, I might say, but mighty comfortable and close enough to the ale in the other room for anyone's liking."

The lodgings, though cramped, were very much to Frodo's liking, indeed.  It was a cozy room, with a small table and chair near the single rounded window.  There was a fire popping merrily in the brick fireplace, and a well-worn arm-chair was drawn up next to it, lap blankets and small pillows draped across its plush red covering invitingly.  The bed was against the inner wall that retained the most heat, and though the weaving of the cloth was simple, the blankets looked thick and wooly and warm and the pillows were freshly plumped.  

Frodo smiled.  "The lodgings are just fine, Mr. Hardbottle."

"May I interest you in some supper out in the common rooms?" The innkeeper inquired as he set down his portion of Frodo's bags near the door.  "The grub is excellent, if I do say so myself, and the ale is even better."

Frodo hesitated.  He was hungry, yes, but tired as well from his day's journey, and as all the inn's patrons were strangers he would not be able to escape them without spending a long while answering their questions.  The stump on Frodo's hand ached with the cold, and he longed for a quiet evening to himself.  

"No thank you, Master Hardbottle.  I am rather tired, and think I should prefer a light supper in my room, please."

Erlan gave a little bow.  "Whatever pleases you, Mr. Baggins."  He quickly exited the room, letting the door click softly behind him.  

Frodo, alone at last, could no longer resist the tempting call of the fire-side chair, and he sank into its softness with a long-repressed sigh.  It was an old chair and lumpy in all the right places, and Frodo felt the tension begin to ease from his aching lower back as he let himself melt into a gentle doze.

There was a light knock on the door.   Frodo stirred from his dreaming long enough to nod at the hobbit maid who brought in his supper on a tray, placing it silently on the small table before exiting with a quick curtsey.  It took some moments for Frodo to gain the will to leave his cozy nest, but he was surprised at how tempting the food smelled.  He eyed the tray with some laughter, measuring the contents of his "light" supper.  There was a platter containing several strips of lightly fried fish, a pile of potato spears, some lemon halves, and a fresh loaf of bread with a small tub of butter and several thick slices of cranberry preserve.  There was also a large bowl of a steaming vegetable soup with whole chunks of hearty carrots and onions floating through its thick broth, and Frodo inhaled its rich scent.  To drink there was a cool pint of ale, courtesy of the barkeep, of course, and…  Frodo smiled.  …and a steaming mug of hot apple cider set next to one of the largest slices of pumpkin pie he had ever seen.  

Hearing the internal chiding of Sam and Rosie, Frodo forced himself to sit awhile at the table and pick at his dinner.  He thought he did rather well.  After three bites of fish, one whole lemon, half a cup of soup, and a slice of bread with a thin spreading of butter atop it, he gave up all pretences of a reasonable dinner and brought the pie and cider back to the arm-chair with him.  He ate these while gazing into the golden glow of the burning logs; some days his chest and mind burned and he could not stand to gaze at a fire for fear of seeing some lingering visage of the Eye, but today what remained of the Ring was mostly silent, and he ate in contentment.  

That night he slept as well as he ever had since his return to the Shire and awoke early the next morning so that he might get a good start on his journey.  Still feeling full from the night before, he skipped breakfast and had Erlan ready his pony while he repacked his small bags.  After bidding the cook a farewell nod (and appropriate compliments for her pumpkin pie), Frodo slipped out the front door to be greeted by the innkeeper leading a young roan mare with bright eyes and a shock of dark mane by the halter.

"This here is Strawberry," said Erlan Hardbottle and patted the little pony on the nose.  "A right beaut, and gentle as they come.  We'd a kept her but for having enough ponies to do all the needed business several times over, and seeing as how the Thain was looking to buy a good strong mare to breed with it seemed right to sell."  

"She is beautiful," Frodo agreed, stroking the roan red coat of her flank.  "Paladin will get many good ponies from her in years to come."

"Fast ones, too," the innkeeper laughed.  "Her mother's won the Mayfair race three years running.  She's a mite skittish, but then again she's still young and not seen much of the world.  You should be able to handle her well." 

They loaded the saddle bags with Frodo's baggage and tied his pack to the back of the saddle.  Strawberry stood as still as stone throughout the fuss, even as the stirrups were adjusted to fit Frodo's slightly taller than average frame, and the Ringbearer was feeling very comfortable around her as he mounted.  

"Turn west down the East Road," Erlan instructed, pointing out the direction.  "After a few miles there will be a less traveled road that will branch off and run south towards Tookborough.  It's a bit rough in areas, and goes through mostly wilderness, but it's well enough for winter travel and you should have no major problems.  At some point you will cross the repaired bridge over Ederbourn Creek.  The water's a bit nasty there, but the bridge is all right and even if it wasn't the next crossing is so far off you'd be better just going home.  That will take your journey well into the afternoon, but you should reach Tookborough shortly before nightfall.  I take it you know the way from there."

"Yes," Frodo affirmed, adjusting himself in the saddle.   "I am meeting my cousin where the trail joins up with the main road once more, and he and I will continue on to the Great Smails."

Erlan nodded and gave Strawberry a final loving swat.  "Best of journeys to you then, Mr. Baggins.  And I hope you keep the Pig in mind when you next pass through Bywater.  We'd be glad to have your business again."

"I shall," Frodo responded, and clicked the pony into a walk.  "Farewell!"

The first few hours of his journey were uneventful and rather enjoyable.  The morning sun was spectacular and, despite the old snow, the winter landscape of the Shire was still as beautiful and stunning in a way much more familiar and home-like than the soaring geography of the lands he had seen in his travels.  As he looked upon the winter landscape Frodo remembered with a sad chuckle a summer that seemed an age ago where he had bid each and every one of these dales farewell.  

As the day wore on, however, the journey became less and less comfortable.  The wind was sharp and biting cold, and he rearranged his scarf to cover the lower portion of his face with numb fingers.  The saddle of the borrowed pony was unfamiliar and rode strangely, and Frodo found himself having to constantly readjust his footing in the stirrups.  He didn't suffer alone, however; the roan's coat was now speckled with icicles and frost, the pony's steps slower and less sure on the muddy road.  It was a lonely journey, and Frodo was looking forward to meeting Pippin at the crossroads.  

When the sun had just begun to make its last downward arc the woods suddenly disappeared and Frodo and pony stumbled upon the Ederbourn Creek Bridge.  A slight flood from the last spring had washed out the middle of the old stone cart bridge, and a temporary structure of wooden planks had been erected in its steed until the labor could be spared from repair of the main roads.  

Frodo eyed the little bridge with trepidation, but knew that even if he did not trust the inkeeper's assurances, this was the only crossing for miles and backtracking now would mean at least a three day detour down the main road towards Waymoot.  Besides, the creek was not that wide.  In the rush of spring thaw, when the water tables were at their highest, this little mockery of the Water would stretch no more than twenty feet at its widest some ways downstream before it joined with the Shirebourn River.  In the dead of winter the icy water ran only a few feet wide half a mile upstream, revealing a wide, rocky stretch of beach on each bank.  

The only reason the little stone bridge had been constructed at all was that by some chance, the particular point where it intercepted the road was the deepest portion of it's journey, with large, loose boulders and fast moving miniature rapids that prevented safe fording.  A small natural dam created an unnaturally wide pool seventy feet long and twenty five feet wide.  The bridge had been built of solid stone to resist the swirling waters of this treacherous stretch of the creek, but even that had crumbled after a hard freezing winter followed by the rush of spring rain.

Not liking the look of the repair job at all Frodo held a brief mental debate, finally deciding that he would not have been sent this way had the bridge not been suitable, and eased Strawberry into a gentle walk.  The moment the mare's feet touched the boards, Strawberry nickered at the hollow sound her hoofs made on the wooden planks and laid her ears flat against her skull.  

"Easy, old gal," Frodo soothed, tightening his hold on the reigns, feeling his own nerves tense as the horsed snorted and pranced on the wooden bridge.  "I don't like that noise, either, but if we keep our wits and move right on forward then we'll be on the other side in two jiffies." 

It took nearly a minute to coax the pony to move forward again, and by that time Frodo was deeply rattled and thought he could hear every tiny shift of the bridge beneath their weight.  The wooden planks were dark with saturated water and ice.  Each step of the horse's hooves echoed in the frozen dell like whip-cracks.

'Come on,' Frodo thought.  'Faster.  The sooner we get off this cursed bridge, the better I will feel about it.'  He stroked Strawberry reassuringly on her flank.

A lone winter cardinal let out a brief shrill of song just as they reached the crest of the bridge, and as if that was some signal the wooden planks beneath the pony's' hind quarters suddenly gave way.   

Frodo gasped in surprise as Strawberry whinnied her alarm, hooves scrambling at empty air.  He threw himself forward in the saddle, thinking there was still time to get the pony moving and onto a stronger portion of the bridge.  Strawberry struggled as well, attempting to heave her bulk back out of the ever-growing hole, clawing frantically with her front limbs at boards slick with ice.  Her frenzied snorts turned to puffs of frost in the freezing air.  With his senses enhanced by a rush of adrenaline, Frodo thought he could hear his warm breath crackle as it froze and shatter again as it fell in a minute blizzard against his eyelashes.

There was another low groan as more of the bridge shuddered and finally gave way, and then horse and rider were falling.  Frodo was thrown from the saddle, and he had only a few lightning-short moments to panic before he hit the icy wall of the water and darkness took him.


	2. Part Two

Yes, it seems that the world's slowest updater has finally managed to bang out another chapter.  My problem is that I don't write sequentially.  Once we get to the last few installments of this puppy things'll start rolling really quick.  But until then…well, I've posted something, haven't I?  Enjoy.

Title: Between the Woods and Frozen Lake (2/?)

Author: Slipstream 

Rating: PG (For illness, non-sexual hobbit nudity, and brief animal violence)

Summary:  While traveling on horse-back across a frozen Shire to visit the Tooks for Yule, a sudden accident leaves Frodo on the brink of winter and a battle hardened Pippin to care for him.  

Notes:  Because there should be more fics featuring the Frodo+Pippin friendship.  Also, I did not know how few words there were to describe riding a horse until I wrote this chapter.  Ugh.  So if it seems a bit repetitive for you, give me some better synonyms and I'll use them, but until then this is the best I could do.  

For Frodo Baggins of Bag End, also known as Febobe, bringer of healing!fic.  As always, my dear.  And also for Lily Baggins, on whose birthday this most certainly is (was, whatever, it is given in the spirit of the thing).  A many happy returns!  

~~~***~~~

Peregrin Took shifted restlessly in his saddle and gazed up the road towards Bywater for what seemed the thousandth time.  Where was his blasted cousin?  They had agreed to meet here for the last leg of the journey, and Pippin had arrived long before Frodo could be expected to turn up.  But several hours had passed and it was growing late, and yet he had seen neither hide nor hair of his dark-curled elder cousin.  

But along with a growing sense of impatience, worry was beginning to edge into his consciousness.  Frodo was a grown hobbit, he knew that, but the journey had left both his body and spirit weakened.  Pippin would never forget the first time he had seen his cousin's broken form cradled in Gandalf's arms while the King changed the far-too-many bandages swaddling his skeletal body.  Though he would be first to protest otherwise, Frodo had never fully recovered, and Pippin mused over these thoughts while huddling deeper into his cloak as the chill of the evening continued to settle.    

"What's keeping you, Frodo?" Pippin finally muttered to the wind after another half-hour of waiting.   He was beyond impatience now and deep into worry, conjuring up all sorts of horrific accidents or events that could have caused his cousin's delay.  'Fool of a Took,' he thought to himself.  'You are naught but a ninny-hammer, letting your imagination run away with you like that.  Any moment now Frodo will come round the corner munching on some wild winter cranberries he's just found and laugh at your fool self, and won't you look the smart one, pacing and fretting like an old mother hen!'

'But still…'  He turned again to look up the path.  'You know where he's coming from, and it can't hurt if you ride ahead just a bit and surprise him on the road.  Then the two of you can have a good laugh at your impatience and head back to the Smials for some good hot cider and brandy.'  The matter thus resolved in his mind, the young Took turned his mount up the winding path.  

Despite his troubles, Peregrin could not help but notice the majesty of the winter day about him.  Before he had left the Shire he had taken its beauty in the carelessly heartless way all tweenagers did.  Even as they had slipped into the darkness of the Old Forest he had not been overtly worried.  For every moment of Frodo's certainty that he would never see the Shire again, Pippin was just as assured that their journey would be nothing more than a quick jaunt just beyond the borders of the Shire, a merry outing that they would later laugh and toast over in the Green Dragon.  

But that was not to be.  Each day only found the young Took swept further away from home, deeper and deeper into lands strange in their geography and alien in their size.  He remembered standing in the midst of the plains of Rohan and feeling the wind whip his hair about in the same violent, untamed manner in which it bent the plain grasses in rippling waves and feeling so lost and lonely, the ache of the distance between him and his own bed suddenly opening underneath him like a chasm.  And the guilt that would swallow him for hours as he would suddenly realize that he had forgotten about Frodo and Sam for however short a time…the bittersweet taste of salted pork in his mouth at the gates of Isengard as he wondered where his fair-eyed cousin was taking his supper that night, if he ate at all.

He shook himself from dark thoughts, rubbing his chilled hands together and blowing into them in an attempt to warm them.  Blast, but it was cold!  He couldn't wait to find his cousin and return to the Smials, where there would be a roaring fire and plenty of warm, frothy…

The reigns fell slack in his numb fingers and Peregrin Took's eyes widened in shock.  "Oh Eru, no…"

A bend in the trail had revealed a wide, snow-drift filled meadow with the road winding down the middle until it crossed Ederbourn Creek on the partially repaired bridge.  The sunlight was filtered through an overhanging canopy of clouds, giving the gray sky a silver cast that sparkled blue and diamond.  It was a gentle, peaceful scene, one shattered into sharp pieces by the harsh whinnying scream of the riderless pony thrashing injured and bloody in the snow near the creek bank.  

Pippin spurned his own horse into a gallop and crossed the distance in seconds that he later would not be able to recall.  He swung out of his saddle and hastily tethered his pony to a tree, then broke into a run towards the creek.  

"Frodo!  FRODO!"

He could see where the middle of the bridge had broken and given way.  A few loose timbers still clung cautiously to the unsound structure, swaying slightly in the breeze.  He scanned the waters upstream of the bridge but could find no sign of his cousin, so he abruptly changed course and dashed downstream.

"Frodo!  Frodo, where are you?"  He knew he was calling out to his cousin, but the wind seemed to tear the words away from his mouth and his ears were filled with the crunch his feet made in the snow and gravel.    Frodo's horse screamed again, its groans ringing dully through the vale and mixing with the menacing laughter of the water.  Pippin stumbled blindly on, following the curve of the rocky bank with a deepening dread.  He opened his mouth to shout again.  

A bend in the creek's course formed a long finger of the bank that jutted into the flow of the water, forming a partial dam made of soggy limbs and sticks that had been carried downstream.  And there, lying prone facedown and washed up like some forgotten bit of debris, his legs still dangling in the water, was Frodo.

Pippin felt his cries die in his throat, and it was as if two icy claws had come suddenly and ripped out all of his insides, leaving only a bitter hollowness.  The crash of the water was very loud, and in its rushing Pippin became acutely aware of the sound of his heart stopping.  Then time speeded back up again, and he was kneeling in the gravel and sticks and mud next to Frodo's limp form.

With trembling hands he turned Frodo onto his back, and the sickening roll of Frodo's head filled Pippin's throat with bile.  Frodo was alarmingly still; half of his too-pale face was covered with a shock of red stemming from a large gash across his temple and scalp, and when Pippin leaned close he could feel no movement of breath from his cousin's mouth or nose.  Pushing back his panic, he rolled Frodo over enough to drain what water remained in his mouth, pounding his back until no more liquid came forth, then laid him flat again.  He pinched the sharp nose closed, then covered Frodo's mouth with his own and gave him two deep long breaths.  

"Breathe, curse you!" he sobbed and pressed his face to the soaked fabric of his cousin's weskit.  He listed anxiously…and there it was!  A faint stutter and bump, but a heartbeat nonetheless!  But still no rush of air stirred  within the skinny chest, and Pippin moved back up to breathe again for his cousin.  

How long he crouched there in the mud, breathing and listening, breathing and listening, forcing Frodo to cling to life, Peregrin Took would never know.  It seemed an age, and though it could have been scant more than a few minutes, he would later swear to Merry in private that the sun had set and the stars had spun around them in a dizzying dance before giving way to dawn again, a cycle that repeated endlessly for a millennia as he focused on the task of getting his cousin and best friend to _breathe again.  _

And then, when he was about to give up hope and weep with despair, a warm rush of breath met his and Frodo gasped—the weak cry of a newborn babe.  All of the aching emotion that had twisted itself into a ball in Pippin's chest suddenly burst, and he wept a bit in relief, casting himself across his cousin's body in weariness.  It was some moments before he composed himself and settled back on his haunches to contemplate his next move.  

Pippin was torn as to what to do.  Remembering a cold journey up a steep mountainside smothered in snow, he knew that he needed to get Frodo out of his wet clothing and build a fire somewhere where he could trap its heat and re-warm him.  But he had not set forth that morning prepared to make camp.  He had no tent, no form of shelter, not even the means of which to build a fire.  His timber box was home, safe in the warm confines of his bedroom.  Pippin cursed himself, but there was nothing to be done for it.  Best to just approach the problem with plain old hobbit sense.

One thing was for certain, however: he had to get his cousin out of his wet clothing, and he had to be careful about it.  And that meant getting him out of the creek first and foremost.  Moving on numb legs, Pippin hooked his arms under Frodo's shoulders, grunting a little with exertion as he dragged the limp body up the bank.  He settled Frodo on a patch of gravel free from snow and began the laborious process of stripping Frodo of his wet things.  

Frodo's cloak had been lost in the creek, the brooch that pinned it together torn off by the rushing current.  The rest of his clothing was soaked and muddy, sprinkled with the occasional small stick or clump of dead leaves.  Pippin was very careful as he unbuttoned the velvet coat and rearranged his cousin's limbs to aid in its removal—he was worried about Frodo's heart, knowing from gory stories told by the healers' assistants around bedsides when they thought young hobbit lads were sleeping off their latest vile concoction that too much movement could give him an awful shock and be his undoing.  

Knowing that the day would be cold and that he would most certainly be waiting for a good while in the unmerciful wind, Pippin had ventured out of the Smials that day wearing two cloaks.  The first had been his normal winter cloak, a dark gray woolen one with a hood and extra inches on the bottom to account for his height.  The second had been issued to him as part of his soldier's uniform in Gondor, and so followed the Gondorian fashion.  It was a deep black and lined with wolf fur, slightly coarse to the touch but thick enough to retain heat and keep its wearer warm even in the darkest night's chill.  

Pippin removed both of these now, along with his velvet winter coat and over-tunic, leaving him in naught but his shirtsleeves and breaches.  He draped the wolf-skin over Frodo, moving portions of it to access Frodo's clothes as he continued to undress him and towel some warmth into his cold, wet skin.  Once he had Frodo's soaked things in a small pile on the gravel he dressed Frodo carefully in his own clothing, being as careful as he could through the awkward stages of getting Frodo into his tunic and coat.  He then wrapped Frodo in the thinner wool before encompassing him in the thick warmth of the wolf-hide.  

He pulled the hood up over the damp curls, kissing the ice-cold brow briefly while he lingered there.  "There you are, Frodo-love," he sang.  "All nice and tight like a caterpillar in a cocoon.  You'd laugh if you saw me now, Peregrin Took, son of Paladin Took, willingly giving up a warm wrap of cloth!  'Who is this young rascal,' you would say, 'and what has he done with the fiend that would come in my bed, steal my covers, and stick his cold feet in my back?'"

Pippin's flesh prickled into goose bumps under the thin linen of his shirt.  The cold was even more noticeable without his cloaks and jacket, but he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it as he briskly massaged Frodo's limbs through the layers of cloth.  There was no response, but Frodo's breathing was easier, and when Pippin pressed his ear to the thin chest the heartbeat there was faint but steady.  

Seeing that his cousin was stable for the moment, Pippin hefted his sword from its saddle strap and set off grim faced to the side of the wounded pony.  The roan had sunk back to its knees in the kicked-up snow, its sides heaving and eyes rolling wildly in pain.  Pippin stretched out the fingers of his good hand to stroke the quivering neck and spoke in soothing tones as he circled the fallen mare.  She groaned deep in her chest as her rollings made the sharp shards of her broken limb grind together.

"There, girl… Shush… shush…" Pippin crooned, his throat thick.  Her coat was hot and slick with sweat as he felt her torso for other injures, frown deepening as his fingers skittered across swollen and bruised flesh, signs of broken ribs and possibly greater internal injuries.  In his mind he measured the distance from here to the stables at Tookborough, but he knew it was a false hope.  Alone, and with Frodo to take care of, there was no way he could coax the mare to ever hobble back to the stables in her state, and even then, horses were large animals compared to hobbits, and the Shire doctors were hard pressed to set and mend hobbit limbs that badly mangled, much less build harnesses to support such a large beast long enough for the bones to knit without even assurance that it could ever work the fields again.  It was a hard choice, but one he had grown used to living on such a large expanse of farm.

Easing the mare's head back into the snow, Pippin straddled her once-proud neck and covered her remaining eye with a bit of cloth so she wouldn't see the glimmer of the light off the blade as he drew his sword.  Giving her a last few strokes and words of soft comfort, he cut a long clean line along the stretch of her jugular vein, sidestepping quickly to avoid the spill of blood as the pony struggled once, twice, and then sank back into the snow with a last gurgling sigh.  

Once the mare was dead, Pippin moved to salvage what he could from the sopping saddle bags.  Most of Frodo's things were soaked through and nearly frozen, and as he could find nothing else dry with which to dress him he quickly abandoned that pursuit.  As he closed the leather flaps his fingers found the sodden paper wrappings of Yule gifts, and his eyes filmed in tears.  Could his cousin have no happiness?  Should every occasion, great or small end in some tragedy?

The saddle was more difficult to remove, but what lay underneath proved worth the struggle.  Protected by the wide leather skirt, the saddle pad and blanket were dry enough to be of some use, and Pippin used the still-bloody edge of his sword to slice off the frozen parts.  

He gathered his bundle and moved back to were Frodo lay prone in the snow.  He tried to ignore the deathly pallor as he gently wrapped him in another warm blanket, slipping his hand beneath his wrappings to feel the beat of his heart and gently rub some warmth back into his frozen hands.  Frodo remained unmoving, but his breathing was still good and his heartbeat strong—the blood trickling from the wound to his temple had even slowed to a stop and frozen over—so Pippin thought it safe enough to get him atop his own horse and ride back to the Smials.    Though how he would manage that, he had yet no idea.

With his newfound height Pippin no longer had any trouble mounting the small Shire ponies.  He had even bribed Merry into teaching him the little trick he had learned in Rohan, the flashy ways to mount a horse in a single leap.  But with the burden of Frodo he could not simply get a running start and then spring lightly onto the wide back.  He scanned the landscape, looking for some means of getting Frodo onto the back of the pony without simply flinging him up there like a sack of potatoes.  There were no stepping-ladders here in the wild, but there was the bridge, whose base was still strong and sturdy.  

He led his pony up alongside the first steps of the bridge, and the steed was content to nose the snow there for grass while he fetched Frodo.  Pippin cradled him gently, as if he was a babe, and indeed he seemed to weight no more than a fat hobbit youngling in his arms.  The bridge provided the height Pippin needed to place Frodo in the saddle without jostling him overmuch, and he mounted behind him, holding Frodo close in his lap.  He urged his pony into a gentle walk, unsure of how this arrangement would work, but as they turned back onto the path homeward Pippin figured out where to put his arms and legs so that he could steer the pony while keeping Frodo from sliding off.  It was awkward and involved Pippin snaking one arm around Frodo tightly and pulling him close to his chest, but perhaps this was for the best, as some of Pippin's warmth seeped into the Ringbearer's too-thin form.  Frodo moaned a little, but otherwise did not stir.  

The longer they rode the faster Pippin dared push his mount, keeping one eye on the road and the other on his cousin.  Pippin had always been the type to think the return journey shorter than the getting there, but this ride seemed to stretch ahead of him, unending, eternal, deadly…  His lungs burned with the cold air and the wind cut through his linen shirt like a sharp slap.  He doubted he could have been any colder had he been riding naked.  But despite his feelings of abject misery, Pippin bit his tongue and only urged the pony faster, faster, for surely if he was cold then Frodo would be at the point of freezing to death.  Pippin shook his head fiercely, ignoring the headache it induced.  No, best not to think about that…  They would make it to Great Smiles before that happened, or his name was not Peregrin Took.

The sun crawled across the overcast sky and it grew dark.  How long they had been riding, Pippin did not know.  Slowly the landscape around them had changed from forest to fields, with the occasional dark hobbit-hole tucked into the hillside.  The road was easier, and for a while all Pippin could hear was the dull thud of his heartbeat in cadence with the pounding of the pony's hooves.  Every few steps Frodo's head hit his chin with a dull cracking of bone, his limp body bobbing with each jostling movement.             

There was a cry from the road ahead.  Pippin looked up, dazed, and was surprised to see another hobbit on horseback trotting toward them.  

"Ahoy there!" the farmer called, reigning his mount to a halt.  "What are you chaps riding about in this weather for only half-dressed?  It'll be the death of you!"

"There's been an accident!" Peregrin panted, his frozen arms glad at the chance to slow the pace of his horse, which wheezed and shuddered for breath.  "The old stone bridge collapsed, dumping my cousin into the creek!  Killed his horse, and he's half-dead himself!  I'm trying to take him back to the Great Smials."

Peering at the half-blue bundle in his arms, the farmer's eyes grew wide.  "That's quite a ride still, lad.  Is there nowhere else you could stop from there to here?"

Pippin shook his head, anxious now to get back underway.  "No, and if there was, I don't know if there'd be healers as skilled as those at the Smials.  I'm riding as fast as I can, but with two in the saddle and him unconscious I can't go much faster than a canter.  Could you ride ahead and send word for a healer?  Tell them to have hot baths and warm towels and whatever else is needed to thaw icy bones."

The farmer nodded.  "That I can do.  We have been traveling a long ways, but my horse is still fairly fresh and can make it there quick enough.  We'll send your message, Master…?"

"Took.  Peregrin Took.  And it's Frodo Baggins as is injured."

"Right then," the farmer nodded, and waved farewell as he urged his mount into a gallop, soon disappearing down the road.  

A sudden gust of wind caught the young Took across the face, and he shivered anew, clutching Frodo close.  His elder cousin groaned as his body attempted to slip sideways out of the saddle, but Pippin's grip was sure and strong despite the numbness of his fingers.  Letting Frodo's head rest against his shoulder, he buried a kiss in frozen black curls, pulling the cloak and saddle blanket back about his cousin's face.  Bruised eyelids fluttered open beneath his fingers to reveal two slivers of ice blue, and Frodo's gaze roved sightless over the overcast sky.  He quaked violently, making slight choking noises in his throat.  

"Shhhh… shhhh…" Pippin soothed, his own voice thick in his ears.  "I've got you.  We'll be at the Great Smials soon enough, and then you'll be nice and warm and cared for.  With steaming mushroom soup for every meal.  Eh?  How does that sound?"

But Frodo was silent once more, limbs dangling limp as a rag doll's.  Pippin set his jaw and, ignoring the growing black ache in his throat, spurred his horse back to a quick canter towards home.  

TBC…


	3. Part Three

Title:  Between the Woods and Frozen Lake (3/?)     

Author:  Slipstream

Rating:  PG (for illness, non-sexual hobbit nudity, and brief animal violence)

Summary:  While traveling on horse-back across a frozen Shire to visit the Tooks for Yule, a sudden accident leaves Frodo on the brink of winter and a battle hardened Pippin to care for him. 

Notes:  Because PippinFrodo is one of the best under-appreciated parts of the fandom.  And because Frodo!Healing is always a good thing.  No major notes for this chapter.  There is, however, some accidental hobbit numerology.  If you spot it (and trust me, it's very obscure and probably only makes sense to me, so I doubt it), I'll give you a cookie. 

For everyone who has put up with my tardiness and still encouraged me on the way, and those who weren't so polite about it and kindly kicked me off of my butt.  I salute you. 

Paladin Took, Thain and Master of the Great Smials, was an extremely busy hobbit.  Since the arrival of a farmer bearing news of his son riding homeward with an injured Frodo Baggins, he had been orchestrating a team of healers and servants in preparation for their arrival.  Now he was fairly flying along the main corridor, shouting instructions to maids carrying hot water and blankets and pushing through the gaggle of concerned onlookers hovering near the entrance. 

He burst through the outer door that lead to the stables, the sudden blast of cold air taking his breath for a moment.  The little yard between the main Smials and the stable was a bustle with hobbits bearing torches—some servants doing their routine chores, others there to help light the way of the horse bearing his son and cousin. 

"Here!" he called, laying a hand on a nearby tweenager.  "Any news from the border towers?"

"None, sir," the lad replied, shifting his load of wood to one arm and pointing at the lookout post secured into the uppermost branches of a large tree at the edge of the courtyard.  A hobbit stood there, bundled up against the cold, peering off into the distance.  "If Bill sees anything, he'll give a wave and a shout, but 'til then we can do naught but wait."

Paladin nodded grimly.  "Good lad.  Send word the minute they are sighted."  The tween gave a slight bow and mumbled his assertions, then scurried off to bring his fagot of wood to the kitchens.  The Thain watched him go, caught in his own thoughts. 

"Paladin Took!" a gentle voice chided, and he turned to find the matronly figure of Sadie Burrows bustling towards him through the snow, clutching her tattered pink knit shawl about her head with one hand and holding his good winter cloak with the other.  "I'd have thought that bout of pneumonia when you were a lad was enough to teach you not to go out in the cold without proper clothing, but I seem to be mistaken." 

Paladin frowned but took the cloak.  "It isn't me you need worry about this night, Sadie."

She smiled slightly, and her gnarled old hand patted him on the shoulder.  "But I do worry, Paladin.  You are as much to me that irrepressible tween who kept trying to sneak out of his sickbed as you are Thain.  It is in my nature to worry for you."

He returned her smile, and Sadie Burrows could still see the mischievous fever-blushed cheeks of a tweenager grinning through the wrinkles of time.  "And who am I to deny you a bit of worry, eh?"

"A horse!  A horse!"  Paladin turned towards the outcry, and saw Bill the lookout waving his arms and shouting.  "My lord, a horse and rider approaches!"

The Thain brushed off the old healer in an instant, taking charge of the sudden flurry of activity.  "Watch them, Bill!  You there!  Lad!  Ready a stable!  And you!  Open the gates and make sure there are plenty of torches there to light their way!  Where are the blankets I asked to be brought?  Hurry, hurry!"

As the hobbits scurried to obey his commands, the sound of hoof beats on packed snow and mud became clearer and clearer.  As the Thain rushed for the gates, a chestnut pony emerged from the darkness, its gate a ragged trot, chest heaving, and hide slick with sweat.  It bore on its back two riders: Peregrin Took, his hair wild and his face as white as the snow, clad only in his shirt-sleeves and breeches, clinging tightly with one hand to the reins and with the other to Frodo Baggins, or rather, a large misshapen bundle of blankets and limbs that bobbed and swayed limply with each step.

Hobbits immediately surrounded the skittish pony.  Stable lads seized hold of the reins while stronger, taller hobbits reached up to steady the two slumped figures in the saddle.  Pippin seemed unaware of all that was going on around him.  He blinked stupidly for a moment at the sea of faces attempting to help him off of his mount, and it was only with some coaxing that he let loose his grip upon Frodo.  

"Come here, Master Pip," soothed Rotho, a burly farm hand known about the Smials as a champion bale-hurler.  The Thain had just two springs ago seen those tanned arms toss a bale of hay the size of a full grown hobbit twenty-five feet.  Now they gathered up Frodo and all his trappings with all the gentleness and care of a matron handling a newborn. "S'alright.  I've got 'im.  Take it easy, now…" 

"Rotho, take him inside.  Gammer Burrows will direct you to the sick room."  Rotho nodded and turned smartly back to the Smials, his gate not hindered by the burden he carried. 

Paladin turned back to the horse.  Two more hobbits, twins Jeb and Job, were easing his son out of the saddle, which made his descent more of a slow-motion fall than a dismount.  As soon as he had slid into their grasp they wrapped him in warm blankets and, with a nod to the Thain, carried him quickly back inside.

They made quite a parade as they wormed their way through the tunnels of the Smials.  Sadie Burrows led the way, still clutching her natty pink shawl as she nearly ran through the crowded corridors, shooing away onlookers left and right.  Rotho followed close behind, puffing a little to keep up with the old bird but still managing not to jolt his precious burden, followed by Jeb and Job carrying Pippin between them, who, judging by the mutterings, was beginning to regain some sense, with Paladin bringing up the rear.  They wound their way deeper and deeper into the earth, bypassing the main living areas and upper-class rooms.  At one point Paladin stopped to send a passing kitchen boy to bring news to Eglantine and their daughters and in doing so nearly lost the rest of their party, but at last he found them again after a few minutes frantic searching.

It was a small room in one of the more common guest wings.  It was deep inside the hill, so there was no window, but the four walls were made of sturdy brick and stucco.  The furnishings were minimal—one bed, a linen armoire, and a rather squashy lounge that was the current home to his blanket swaddled son—but the wall opposite the bed did boast a double-wide fireplace, already home to a blazing fire that warmed the little space very efficiently.  Sadie's youngest daughter was heating kettles of water to fill a copper tub with hot water.  The air was very steamy and smelled of herbs. 

"Paladin!  There you are!"  Sadie Burrows broke off from the hoard of hobbit lasses—all her daughters—hovering over the bed.  From the corner of his eye the Thain could see them stripping Frodo of his soaked things, placing compresses soaked in hot water on his head, chest, and groin, re-wrapping him in warm, dry blankets, and tucking heated bed stones at his hips and feet.  He worriedly noted the blue-gray tint to Frodo's skin and the swath of what appeared to be dried blood on his forehead.

"How is he?" he asked.  "How are they both?"

Sadie sighed, wiping her hands on her apron.  She beckoned him over to a small table next to the fire, where she poured a large cup of tea from a freshly steaming kettle.  "I've only had but a moment to glance o'er them both, but I think your son will be fine.  He's chilled, yes, but coherent and seemingly improving by the moment."  She sorted through a pile of paper packets scattered across the table, and selecting one, stirred its contents into the cup of tea.  "Here," she said, handing him the steaming mug.  "Have him drink this.  Calm him down and find out exactly what happened, and then I'll see to him."

Paladin nodded, and Sadie turned to rejoin her daughters around Master Baggins's sickbed.   Pippin was seated in the large lounge couch facing the fire, all swathed in blankets but for his miserable face.  He resembled more a cotton and gingham covered boulder than a hobbit, a boulder that quivered and quaked.  Paladin sat next to him, but Pippin did not turn to acknowledge him.  He only shivered.  Paladin Took sighed and, wrapping an arm around his son rather awkwardly, pressed the mug of steaming tea into his hands. 

"Here, drink this.  For Eru's sake, you're cold!  Trust my son to pick the coldest time of the year to go riding about half-naked."

Pippin said nothing.  He stared at the cup of tea but made no move to drink it, only sat rigidly and listened to the sounds the healers made as they tended Frodo in the background.

Paladin shook his head and pulled Pippin nearly into his lap, as if he were a child.  And he was, a small voice reminded him.  Though Peregrin Took exceeded his father in height by a good five inches, he was still years from his majority. 

The Thain tried to embrace his son, but it was like cuddling close to an old log.  Pippin was stiff and pale all over, his teeth bared in a hard line and his grip on the cup as strong as death.  Paladin stroked his back as soothingly as he could, wishing for a moment that he had spent more time with his children's nurse so that he might have a better grasp at the finer points of comforting bodily contact.  "Come lad, calm down.  Calm down.  Everything is going to be all right.  Now, do you think we could start by telling me what all happened?  Could you do that?"

Pippin maintained his vice-like hold on his cup, but he managed to nod his head.

 "All right.  Let's start from the beginning.  You left this afternoon to meet Frodo on the road, correct?"

"I…I…" Pippin stammered.  He took a great swallow of tea.  "Y-yes."

"When were you to meet him?  And where?"

"A-at mid-afternoon, w-where the Bywater trail rejoins the main road.  I waited there for him for some hours, but when he did not come…"  Pippin swallowed heavily.  "When he did not come, I followed the Bywater trail, thinking to meet him further up the road.  I…I found him at the bridge at Ederbourn Creek."

The Thain nodded.  "The farmer you sent ahead said that the stone bridge had collapsed.  Is this true?"

Pippin frowned.  "No… not the stone bit.  The base was strong as ever, though the middle washed away last spring.  The wooden bit what was built to span the gap rotted, I think.  There was a great…hole… there in the middle, where they fell."  He shuddered as he remembered the creaking of the wooden planks as they swayed innocently in the wind.  "Frodo I found face-down on a gravel damn downstream.  He was all bloody; I think he hit his head when he fell.  The horse made its own way to shore."  He forced himself to take a long drink of the tea he held.  Now that he was more coherent and could taste it, he was surprised to find it sweet, not bitter like medicine.

Paladin mused over the tale, stroking his chin with one hand in thought.  "Frodo you have brought back to us, but what of the horse?  Did you tether it somewhere?  Should I send some hands to retrieve it?"

"I'm sorry, Da.  The mare had a broken hind limb and ribs.  I had to…put her down."  The horse had not screamed when he'd killed her.  Pippin had been careful to make it as painless as possible.  But there were other horses, at other places in his recent memory, that had died shrieking terribly, groans and moans mixing in with those of the men as the noise of battle raged around them.  Pippin's sword had drawn blood those nights.  And Frodo…  Frodo…

Frodo had nearly died without a sound, as well.

He suddenly felt as if all his limbs were made of water, and he was surprised to find himself shaking with more than cold as he fisted away bitter tears.

"There there… Shh… shh… it's all right…"  Paladin rubbed soothing circles across his son's back, drawing him into a tighter embrace.  "You did what you had to do.  There are times when it is better to kill a thing than let it suffer so in mortal agony."

"Oh, bugger the horse!" he shouted, startling one of the maids so that she nearly dropped a kettle into the fire.  "Frodo!  Oh, Frodo… He… He…"

Paladin stared at his son, shocked.  Pippin swallowed heavily and buried his face in his fists.  "He was dead!" he sobbed, as surprised at his outburst as his father.  "He weren't breathing and I thought surely he had gone but I wasn't about to let him leave me without a proper goodbye, so I fought him, I fought him until he breathed again, but it's no use!  He'll die here as sure as he was nearly dead out there, and all our efforts to keep him safe and happy will be for nothing!"

"Oh…Pippin…"  The young Took sagged into his father's embrace, swallowed whole by bitter tears.  "But you _did_ save him!  He is here, where it is warm and safe, and he is alive, and he has _you_ to thank for it. 

"But we weren't there," the young Took whimpered.  "Not when it mattered.  Not when hope was lost and the world was at the brink of despair.  Only Sam was there for him then, Sam and that miserable curse of a creature from Bilbo's old tales.  Where were Merry and I?  In the halls of kings, with dry beds and wine and fellowship.  We failed him then, and though he lived the Frodo that came back to us was not our cousin.  I tried, Papa.  I tried to bring back the old Fro, but even I am not the same any more, and now I will loose this Fro, too.  Oh, Sam will kill me in despair…" 

The Thain was more than slightly confused by his son's words.  There were details of their travels that he was still not privy to.  The door to the sickroom banged open, and Paladin glanced up in time to see his wife whisk into the room, her face flushed from running and her calico skirts swaying madly about her. 

"Pippin!" she cried, and nearly shoved her husband aside in her race to her only son.  "Oh, Pippin, thank goodness you're safe!"  Pippin allowed himself to be embraced by his mother, but was largely silent.  Outside the door of the sickroom his sisters hovered nervously. 

Sadie murmured a few instructions to her daughters, then joined the little family reunion.  "Elgantine…Young Pippin is exhausted and needs rest.  Why don't you take him to his room where he can lie down?"

Pippin looked up sharply.  "No!"  His mother startled as he struggled to his feet, nearly falling over as he put weight on the numb limbs.  But even as he staggered he stood tall and fierce, his eyes determined.  "I won't leave Frodo now, not ever.  I shan't return to my quarters until he is well enough to join me there.  I'll keep him in my sights, for now."

"But you must have rest!" Sadie insisted.  Peregrin stood firm.  Elgantine and her three daughters looked at the two of them worriedly.   A tea pot whistled to life in the fireplace, and Elsa, Sadie's middle daughter, rushed to tend it.  It seemed neither Traveler nor healer would back out of the contest of wills.  Sadie paused, considering for a moment, then nodded as she came to a decision.

"All right then.  You needn't return to your room, but you must have rest and sleep.  Don't be hasty to object!  You will not go far from your companion.  The guest room next to this one is empty as well; I had two prepared in case you were in worse shape than you are, and it is warm and close so that I can keep an eye on your breathing, as well.  And should you feel the urge to check in on Frodo, you can pop your head around the corner in an instant, not tax yourself by crossing the whole of the Smials only to say hello."

Pippin stood defiant for a moment more, then bowed his head in resignation, mumbling something about how Sadie wasn't the first to call him hasty.  With the help of his mother, he made his way to the door, wincing as each step returned feeling to his lower extremities.  He paused by Frodo's bedside and looked long into his cousin's still face, his expression a mix of despair and something unrecognizable.  He bent and placed a gentle kiss on his cousin's brow, smoothing back the unruly curls.  It was then that Sadie realized what she had seen on his features: love.

The Tooks left the room, but Sadie stopped the Thain before he could leave.  "A moment, sir, if you will.  I have something I feel you must see."

The Thain nodded and closed the door before following the old healer back to the bed.  The figure of Frodo Baggins seemed unnaturally small in the midst of all his wrappings, hardly recognizable as a hobbit.  He looked into the sharp face and frowned.  "He has not gained weight since I saw him last.  This worries me."

"I've not seen a hobbit this thin since the rebels were freed Michael Delving," Sadie agreed.  "But that is not what I wished to show you.  Look."  With the aid of one of her daughters, she gently rolled Frodo onto his side and pulled back the layers of blankets to expose his back.

Palladin's gasp was quiet but sharp, as alarmed and outraged as the face of Sadie Burrows.  Whip marks as thick as a child's wrist crisscrossed in an angry spider's web across the narrow expanse of skin and ribs.  Against the gray-blue skin shadowed by pain, they stood out like slices of red flame.

Anger burned through the Thain with a force he had not felt since the first coming of the ruffians.  "Who did this to him?  And why?"

Sadie was quiet for several moments as she tucked Frodo back into his linens.  "You would know better than I.  Those marks are not new, but nor are they old, and they come from no parent's switch or farmer's whip.  I guess them to be around six months old, and badly healed at that.  Something foul belayed Master Baggins during his long absence, though what, exactly, I am loath to say."

The room seemed suddenly dimmer as Paladin remembered the brown scar that marred the brow of his best friend's son.  "Orcs…" he whispered.

Sadie looked up.  "Pardon?"

He waved her away.  "Nothing.  An old hobbit's musing, that is all."

She frowned, perhaps sensing that there was more left unsaid, but she pursued it no further.  "Those are not the only scars, however, and all of them are roughly as old as those on his back.  There is the missing finger, of course, but there are also multiple burns on his legs and feet, a line around his neck as if a chain had hung there for an eon, and a strange mark on the back of his neck that I have never seen the likes of.  I would think it a bite or a sting, if not for the size of it."

The Thain frowned.  "Some of those marks I can explain, but others are mysterious to me.  I am afraid that I do not know the full extent of all that happened to Frodo on his journey.  My son was scarce enough on the details of his own adventures, much less those of his companions."

Sadie nodded absently.  She stroked the thin face that lay so eerily still on the down pillow with an aged hand, and for a moment Paladin through he saw two strange and conflicting images: one of a young mother soothing away the nightmares of her newborn babe, the other of two great forces of light fading into the cosmos.  He blinked purposefully, and the apparitions were gone, leaving only a very old gammer and one of his son's dearest friends lying at the brink of death. 

"But what of now?" he asked.  "What can we do for him now?"

Sadie patted Frodo on the head, letting her fingers linger on his brow to feel his temperature.  She stood and turned to face the Thain, and all tenderness was gone from her face, leaving her proud and steady.  She stood like a great tree of the old forest, immovable, with roots so deep they could be felt, and Paladin doubted any axe of hobbit or men or orc could fell her.

"Now?  Now we keep him warm, and fed, and dry, and comforted.  We give him companionship and merriment, what we can this Yule, and we watch him very closely.  I am not promising that he will recover, but I shall say that we will not give him up without a fight."

"Mother," a soft voice interrupted.  Enola Burrows curtsied nervously in front of the Thain, then spoke again to her mother.  "The herbal bath is ready."

Sadie smiled at her wearily.  "Thank you, dear."  Enola curtsied again, then scurried off, her cheeks in a high blush.

"I take it that this is my signal to take my leave," said Paladin.

"It is.  Go.  See your wife and children, and make sure that boy of yours stays in his bed until I say that he can leave.  No doubt he has inherited some of your opinions on bed rest."  She smiled at him fondly as she shooed him out the door, which she closed firmly as soon as he had left.

"Mama?"  Her three daughters were looking at her questioningly, a glimmer of fear lurking around their tense faces.  "Did you mean what you told the Thain?  Is Master Baggins going to die?"

Sadie felt a rush of emotion overtake her for a moment.  She did not know why.  Frodo Baggins was virtually a stranger to her, a face she had seen only a few times during holidays.  But the memory of what foul things decorated the hobbit's skin danced before her eyes, and she bit back tears.  She straitened herself, and became the fiery warrior she had been as a lass.

"I meant what I said about not giving him up without a battle.  Come!  Ester, Elsa, Enola—it will take the four of us to move him to the bath."


End file.
